Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (206 page)

Delinka’s heavy sigh hung in the air. “I should have seen the truth. It was the man in my vision, wasn’t it?”

Without turning around, Delilah nodded. How angry would Uncle Deagan be when he learned of her betrayal? Would he cast her from the gypsy camp? Where would she go then? What would she do?

“Belcher, fetch Deagan.”

Cringing, Delilah tried to ignore the finality in Delinka’s command as the door closed. “I would like to see my mother.”

“First you must say your piece to your uncle.”

Delilah sat down on the narrow cot with a groan. She dreaded the meeting to come; there was nothing she could do except explain her position and hope her uncle would have mercy on her. In the tense silence she waited, washing each hand with the other. Just when she thought she couldn’t stand the drabardi’s quiet accusation any longer, the door opened. A heavy tread climbed the steps and stopped in front of her.

“What have you done, Delilah? Why have you forsaken your people?”

The heated anger sizzled from his censure, singeing her emotions. “I am sorry, uncle, but I saw no other way. You are wrong about my path in this life, for I have seen it for myself in the crystal ball.”

“No! You see what you want to see!”

“Nay! I see with my heart, uncle, not with my useless eyes. I cannot be what you want and need. I am Delilah, not the great drabardi.”

He slammed his fist down on the table, the vibrations covering the tremble of her hands as she flattened them against the surface. “You are right. You are no drabardi. You are nothing but a chuvihani!”

Hurt at his accusation of witchcraft tightened her chest. She had alienated the only family left in her world for what? For a man who didn’t love her? Would her mother forgive her? The mother she never met.

“There must be a way to make things right.” The desperation in Deagan’s voice carried in the little room. “Belcher, lock Delilah in her wagon while I gather the Romo baro, drabardi, and counsel to decide what is to be done.”

Delilah lowered her head to her arms as they shuffled out and the door closed behind them. A key scraped in the lock to confirm Deagan’s order and then all was quiet.
Have I made a grave mistake?
There seemed nothing to do except wait and see what her punishment would be. Would their decision be swift and harsh or would they make her wallow in this discomfort for hours? It seemed the latter was the most promising as she cradled her head and waited. Yawning, she closed her eyes. Sleep eluded her of late, due to her own guilt she supposed. Though now was not the best time to slumber, she gave in to her body’s need for rest.

• • •

Through her dream foggy mind a haze of noise began to register. Screams and the pop-pop of gunshots roused her to attention.
What is happening?
The thunder of hooves shook the little wagon as horses passed. The shrieks of women and children intensified until it was all she could hear. Terrified, she lurched to her feet and stumbled to the door. Jerking on the latch she found it still locked. “Deagan? Blecher? Delinka? Someone please let me out!”

A woman’s scream, more blood curdling than the rest, echoed just outside the closed door. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Were the tribes at war over her betrayal? “Uncle Deagan!” Frantic, she pounded on the rough door with her fists, not caring when they bruised and became embedded with slivers. Her mind conjured all manner of evil outside happening to her family. After what seemed like hours the screams and gunshots faded. A strange roar took their place. Something snapped, crackled, and popped. The sounds grew louder and louder. Delilah sank to her knees in front of the door, exhausted. Cradling her injured hands in her lap, she leaned her head against it. Tears trickled down her face. The room grew warmer. The scent of smoke tickled her nose and she sneezed. Sneezing turned to coughing as the smoke grew thicker, until it choked her lungs. She drew back as the door against her cheek grew hot.
Fire!
Was the whole encampment on fire? A roaring filled her ears as flames devoured timbers. Sweat trickled from her brow and she wiped it away.

“Someone help me!” Scrambling back from the door, she huddled in the front of the wagon.
No one is coming. I am going to burn to death!
Her fingers skimmed the heated walls until they touched the water skin hung by the herb shelf. She jerked it down from the hook and rummaged through a basket by her feet for a piece of thick cloth. Snatching up a square of material, she held it to the mouth of the water skin to dampen it. After re-corking the skin, she pressed the cloth against her mouth and nose. Gagging and gasping she breathed through the material to minimize the smoke. Her eyes began to burn and water as the heat and smoke grew. Beads of sweat trickled down between her breasts, causing her clothing to stick to her like a second skin. The heat was almost unbearable now, even the coolness of the damp cloth was now warm and uncomfortable against her face. Hot sparks landed on the exposed flesh of her arms. Crying out in terror, she slapped at the sharp pricks burning her skin. The smell of singed hair and flesh rose above the smoke. There was nothing she could do but huddle there, afraid to move without knowing which direction to go to avoid the worst of the flames.

Above the roar of the blaze she thought a voice called. No, not a voice, but the whinny of a horse. She strained to hear it again over the fire consuming all around her. Again the faint sound reached her ears. Was it Jester calling her, or some other horse burning to death in its harness? The whinny came again, closer this time. Clutching the belief it was her guide, she called out, “Jester! Jester, come!”

A timber above her head creaked and then groaned. In a shower of hot sparks it collapsed. A fiery whoosh of air giving evidence it missed the corner she crouched in by scant inches. Another whinny, this time louder and unquestionably Jester’s, claimed her attention. Summoning all the courage she possessed, Delilah crawled toward the sound. She let out a yelp when her hand landed on a burning splinter of wood and seared her palm. Skirting the wood she carried on and tried to block the sizzling pain from her mind. A gust of cooler air brushed her face before the floor disappeared beneath her searching hand. Screaming, she tumbled into nothing, coming to rest seconds later in a heap of smoldering timbers. The smell of burning cloth, hair, and the sizzle of her skin against heated coals made her scramble to her feet. Stumbling over debris she made her way from the worst of the heat. Something brushed her leg and then Jester’s nicker greeted her.

“Jester, my friend.” With tears of relief coursing down her flushed face, she flung her arms around her trusted guide’s neck. He nickered again and rubbed her hip with his nose before he strained to move away. The crash of another falling timber encouraged her to scramble aboard the pony and urge him onward.

The sounds and heat died away as they wandered. Delilah couldn’t fathom where they were headed and truth be told, she wasn’t sure she even cared. Did the Romo baro defeat her own clan and leave her to burn as punishment for her betrayal? She was homeless, a lost soul. Did it matter where she ended up?

Her gritty eyes grew heavy and she closed them, leaning forward and wrapping her scorched hands around Jester’s neck. The pain from hanging on was so great she smothered a sob. Despite it, she forced herself to hold tight lest she fall and get separated from the single thing anchoring her in the world. Delinka said Jester was her mate in another life. Was this true? Was his mission to see she was safe in her world of darkness because he sinned in his last life? If so, did it bother him she couldn’t remember and was in love with another? She slid into a haze of pain and exhaustion, thoughts of Tyrone swirling about in her head.

Chapter Thirty

An insistent pounding permeated his slumber. Annoyed, Tyrone rolled over and opened his eyes. “Bloody hell, what is so urgent this early in the morn?”

“Come quick, my lord! The pony has shown up at Westpoint Manor with Miss Daysland aboard,” came the valet’s response from the other side of the door.

Tyrone sat up and flung off the bed covers. “Get in here. What is that you say?”

The connecting door to the valet’s room flew open and banged against the wall. The valet rushed in and began yanking articles of clothing from various drawers. “Hurry, my lord. The mistress is in a bad way.”

Tyrone scrambled to his feet and snatched a pair of breeches from the servant’s hands. Shoving his legs into them, he hopped to the door. “Never mind the trappings, show me where she is!”

The servant darted out the door with Tyrone’s boots, a shirt, waistcoat and great coat clutched in his hands. He led the way down to the lower floor of the inn while Tyrone hurried along behind buttoning his trousers. “How did you hear of this?”

“The maid, Teresa, sent the cook’s husband here post haste, my lord.” The butler crossed the public room that was empty of customers at such an early hour and rapped on the door to the innkeeper’s private quarters.

“Why were the maid, the cook, and her husband in residence at Westpoint when they were let go?” Tyrone snatched his shirt from his valet as a sleepy eyed innkeeper opened the door.

The valet passed him his vest, coat and boots. “They refused to leave until they knew of Miss Daysland’s fate, my lord.” He turned to the innkeeper. “Lord Frost needs a fast horse saddled immediately.”

With a nod the innkeeper scurried in the direction of the stables.

• • •

Upon entering Westpoint Manor Tyrone spotted Jester standing in the foyer. Miss Daysland was slumped across his back, filthy and tattered. He ran to the animal’s side where the maid kneeled.

“Delilah?” When she moaned he reached for her and chastised the maid. “Why hasn’t your mistress been taken above stairs?”

Tears streaked Teresa’s cheeks. “She refuses to let go of the pony, my lord. I’m not sure she realizes where she is or who we are in her state.”

With effort Tyrone steadied his voice and spoke with gentle persuasion. “Delilah, it is me, Tyrone. You are safe now at Westpoint. Jester has brought you home.” The scent of smoke and burned flesh invaded his nostrils.

“Ty … rone?” Delilah moaned. “I’m not dead?”

“No, my little wood nymph, you are not dead.”

Her lips quivered. “Jester … he brought me … home.”

“Yes, he did. You are safe now, Delilah, I promise you.”

“You never lie.” A sob escaped her and her grip on the pony relaxed.

Despite the seriousness of the situation Tyrone could not help but smile. “Never.” The smile slipped from his lips when he eased her fingers from around Jester’s neck to lift her down and she cried out in pain. He scooped her up in his arms and looked over his shoulder at the butler. “Send for a physician.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Tyrone hurried upstairs to Delilah’s former room. The light scent of flowers still lingered in the bedchamber, doing little to cover the stench of her burned flesh, hair and clothing. He placed her on top of the blankets. Her once shiny black locks hung limp and dirty, singed in some spots right to her scalp. Soot smudged the bridge of her nose and peppered her cheeks.

He leaned over her. “Delilah? Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered and then opened. The tip of her tongue slipped between her lips to moisten the cracked flesh before she mustered a hoarse whisper. “Ty … rone?”

“Yes.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

She grimaced as if in pain and raised her hand to her face.

For the first time he noticed the bits of burned flesh hanging from the swollen, red appendages. “Your hands! What happened?”

“I’m … not sure. There were … screams. Gunshots. The fire … it burned … everything. I could not get out. Then … Jester came for me.” She paused to cough, the sound raspy and dry. “Why are you here?”

He sat on the edge of the bed. “Teresa summoned me when Jester brought you home.”

“Of course. Jester … ” Her chapped lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “He was my mate … in another life.”

“What?”

Her lids fluttered and then closed. A soft sigh drifted from her lips as they parted and went slack. Concerned, he lay his head close to her mouth, relieved when her breath brushed his cheek. With great care he turned her hands palms up. Wet, painful looking blisters formed on the skin, oozing and seeping into the grime coating them. He recalled her reading to him in the library with her fingers and wondered if she would ever be able to do such amazing things again. The door opened and he turned.

The butler peered into the room. “The stable lad has taken your horse to fetch the physician.”

“Good.” Tyrone glanced back at Delilah and realized there was no household staff in attendance other than the maid, cook, butler, and stable lad. “When the lad returns send him to fetch back the rest of the servants but caution him and the rest of the staff to keep quiet about Miss Daysland’s presence here, at least until I find out what happened.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The door closed with an abrupt click before he could ask if faithful Jester was taken care of. It occurred to him perhaps the stable lad couldn’t be trusted. Who of the former staff could he trust? Teresa he believed was loyal and the butler, Aims, but the rest of them? A soft knock sounded on the door and he looked up.

The maid hurried in with an armload of towels and a basin of water. She didn’t look surprised to see him perched there on the edge of the bed. “I brought some things to care for Miss Daysland, my lord.”

“Thank you, Teresa.” He nodded as she set the items on the bedside table. “I will take care of your mistress until the physician arrives.”

She glanced at Delilah and opened her mouth as if to protest but wisely nodded instead. “Yes, my lord.”

After the woman left Tyrone dipped a cloth in the warm water, wrung it out, and washed the soot and dirt from Delilah’s face. She sighed and turned into the washcloth’s caress, yet didn’t wake. He rinsed the cloth and washed down her neck and along the burnt neckline of her soiled white blouse.

No other woman stirred him the way she did. Her lithe, white body squirming atop him while her hands stroked until he could take the pressure no longer haunted his dreams. Stifling a groan he returned his attention to washing. Angry red welts appeared along her arms where he wiped away the soot and bits of burned flesh. He hated the idea of causing her pain, but consoled himself with the thought that she wouldn’t feel it in her sleep, and her blindness would prevent her from seeing the scars remaining from her ordeal. By the time he cleansed her face, throat, and arms the water was black and grimy. For lack of anything else to do he rang for more while he waited for the physician.